


make a home from a rented house

by liketheroad



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-17
Updated: 2010-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:57:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheroad/pseuds/liketheroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Arthur doesn’t quite know when renting a house in Westchester and pretending to be in a civil union with Eames came to constitute "lying-low" but however it happened, he wants a do-over</i>. Pretending to be married fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	make a home from a rented house

Arthur’s never had a kiss anything like it, and against all better judgment and training, against _everything_ , he melts into the kiss, pliant and open except for the grasping of his hands, trying to hold the other body closer against his.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the kiss ends, and the other man sticks out his hand, grinning.

“Cheers, mate.” he says, smoothing Arthur’s hair and then checking his own in the cafe’s window.

It’s only then that Arthur realizes the man before him has to be Eames, going on the description of his attire Dom had given Arthur earlier that day for their new forger, and that the kiss had been nothing more than a practical solution to the problem posed by the pair of hired goons Arthur can make out distantly, searching the shops down the road.

Dom always tells Arthur he takes things too far, holds onto grudges and loyalties with the same irrational commitment, but just because this is true doesn’t mean there’s anything Arthur can do about it.

And in that moment, as Eames grins at him and Arthur battles to control the frantic beating of his heart, Arthur vows that he’ll never let himself get caught a step behind one of Eames’ cons again.

 _Five years later (or so)_

  
Arthur steps into the house, tugging off his scarf and calling out, “Eames?” as he hangs his coat, toeing off his boots.

There’s no answer, but given that none of the lights are on, he wasn’t really expecting one. Instead, Liza trots up to greet him, barking once in hello and sitting patiently, waiting for Arthur to lean down and scratch her behind the ears.

He does so, and then she trails after him as Arthur walks purposefully towards the kitchen, already formulating the dinner he’s going to piece together with the meager contents of his fridge. He’s briefly waylaid by his desire for tea, but soon the kettle is boiling and his stir fry is frying.

Arthur hums to himself as he works, his mind contentedly blank, until he hears the door open, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Honey, I’m home,” Eames jokes, and Arthur rolls his eyes, even though Eames can’t see him.

“I’m rolling my eyes!” he shouts, not wanting Eames to entirely miss out.

“Of course you are,” Eames says indulgently, striding into the kitchen, still wearing his coat and boots, snow melting on Arthur’s nice clean floor.

“I hope you’re looking forward to washing that,” Arthur remarks dryly, his back to Eames as he turns off the wok and spoons his dinner on to a plate.

“You should be more careful about setting me up for jokes about getting on my knees, Arthur,” Eames chides, and Arthur has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling.

“My mistake,” Arthur murmurs, contrite.

“What’s for dinner?” Eames asks, peering over Arthur’s shoulder, hand on his waist.

“Stir fry, but I didn’t make enough for you,” Arthur replies, hunching over his plate protectively, and elbowing Eames when he doesn’t back away quickly enough.

Eames rubs the offended area with one hand and sneaks a carrot off Arthur’s plate with the other.

“Don’t make me shoot you,” Arthur warns, half-serious.

Eames bats his eye lashes. “Now now, you don’t want me to have to call Cobb and tell him the job is off because I’m in trouble behind closed doors.”

For a moment, Arthur considers pretending to take this threat seriously, but he’s had a long day, and he’d really prefer continuing this discussion from the comfort of the living room.

With that goal in mind, he compromises, saying, “You can have half of everything except the tiny corn, that’s mine.”

“Of course, darling,” Eames allows solemnly, as though he would never dream of depriving Arthur of miniature corn.

With that, they head for the couch, Liza trailing loyally after them. Eames turns on the TV while Arthur settles comfortably in what has become his spot, resting his sore feet on the ottoman and letting Eames steal off his plate with the extra fork he brought for the occasion.

Their utensils clash over a piece of broccoli and Eames backs off with a strange smile, too full of genuine fondness to be his usual smirk, and Arthur ignores the tightness in his chest as he fails, not for the first time, to restrain his desire to sink closer to Eames on the couch, reveling in the warmth of his proximity even though nobody is there to watch them.

 _Three months earlier_

  
“No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on, Arthur, you stick in the mud! Live a little!”

Ignoring Eames, Arthur looks at Cobb beseechingly.

“Tell me you’re not actually serious about this.”

Cobb shrugs. “I think it would make for a nice change of scenery, doing things the old fashioned way.”

Arthur focuses very hard on keeping his voice even. “The whole _point_ of advancing to subconscious theft is to avoid the risks of doing things the old fashioned way.”

“Arthur, are you, of all people, actually suggesting you think there are _less_ risks involved doing this in a dream? Surely you can do better than that,” Eames pipes up again, sounding humorously unimpressed.

Arthur huffs, pacing to give himself something to do. “We’re supposed to be lying low, not making any waves.” He looks back at Cobb. “And I thought you were retired.”

Cobb laughs self-deprecatingly. “No, you didn’t.”

Arthur concedes the point with a quirk of his eyebrow and Cobb continues. “Besides, that’s the beauty of this job, because none of it will take place a dream, we won’t have to rely on any of our old contacts, we won’t need a chemist, won’t need to find a warehouse, it’ll be completely off the radar.”

Arthur doesn’t quite know when renting a house in Westchester and pretending to be in a civil union with Eames came to constitute _lying-low_ but however it happened, he wants a do-over.

\---

He agrees to take the job anyway, because Cobb is asking, and Cobb hasn’t asked Arthur for anything in the past six months, not since they performed inception and altered the course of the world’s economic power structure in the same breath. In that time, he’s barely even seen Cobb, not wanting to intrude, bring back bad memories.

The team scattered after disembarking at LAX, and while Arthur’s kept tabs on everyone - Saito in Kyoto, Ariadne in Paris, Yusuf in Mombasa, Cobb with his kids in L.A, Eames usually in the hotel room across from Arthur’s - the only one he’s seen much of is Eames. While the rest of the team was content to return to their old lives considerably richer, Arthur had picked right back up taking jobs and working point, although his new partners never lasted long. He was out of the habit of working with anyone other than Cobb as his extractor, and the notoriety that came along with performing inception, at least in the small circle of people who learned about it, often meant his name attracted the wrong kind of interest.

Eames is the only one Arthur’s worked with more than once, following inception, and he’s the one who recruited Cobb for this latest job. The bastard probably knew it was the only way Arthur would accept.

\---

The mark’s name is Edward Jones, and he’s a stock broker in Manhattan, but he lives in Westchester with his long-term partner and their pair of prize winning show dogs. They’re Welsh corgi’s, _like the Queen’s_ , Eames has pointed out more than once.

Jones is suspected of insider trading and a host of other offenses, and it’s their job to find out whether or not he’s guilty before the FBI does. It’s Jones’ own company that’s hired them, but Jones’ partner is ex-military, so both of their subconsciouses have been militarized.

Which explains why Eames wants them to do the job, as Dom put it, _the old fashioned way_.

It still, in Arthur’s opinion, doesn’t explain why he and Eames have to be pretend to be _married_.

\---

“It’s a long-con, darling,” Eames repeats, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Jones doesn’t associate with anyone from the firm, he’s estranged from his family. The only close ties he has are to his partner and the other nutters they go to dog shows with. It’s our only in.”

Arthur grits his teeth. “That still doesn’t explain why it has to be _both_ of us. Or why we have to pretend to be in love.” The words feel strange in his mouth, even from this hostile distance, glaring at Eames from across the room.

“Best way to get past someone’s defenses is to show them how much you have in common, it flatters the ego and generates solidarity. We’ve got to get them to trust us, like us. If we’re their friends, I think, Jones will eventually let us in on his secrets. Particularly if we’re set up in a position to help him.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“It’s all in the identities I’ve prepared for us,” Eames assures Arthur with an unconcerned hand-wave. “Ex-military background for you, to appeal to Marcus,” Edward’s partner, “enough connections to shady black-ops back-channels that you could plausibly get them out of the country, if need be. And I’m your mad-cap other half, descendant from landed gentry and with just enough ties from my misspent youth to be equally useful in a tight spot.”

“I see you’re really straining yourself on this one,” Arthur remarks sarcastically, restraining himself from petulantly asking Eames which one of them lacks imagination this time.

Eames just grins. “They’re the roles we were born to play.”

\---

The house they rent is suspiciously well-suited to Arthur’s tastes. It has large hedges and a long drive-way, protecting most of the house from view, giving it a secluded, almost cozy feel from the moment you step inside. It has high ceilings and hardwood floors, arched doorways and a large, modern kitchen accented with marble counter-tops and stainless steal appliances. There’s a bright, open sun-room looking out onto the backyard furnished with a piano, bookshelves and a love-seat. On the second floor, the master bedroom is decorated frighteningly close to Arthur’s own bedroom in his apartment in L.A and the remaining two bedrooms are set up as studies for himself and Eames respectfully. A good portion of the books on the shelves in both Arthur’s office and the sun-room are copies of his own collection, to the point that he opens a few just to make sure Eames hasn’t actually stolen any directly from his library at home.

There are doctored photos of them at various ages and geographical locations all over the walls, and Arthur even spots one or two genuine ones from past jobs they’ve done together. Mal used to be quite the shutterbug, in her day, and Arthur was always one of her favorite subjects. Particularly when Eames was also in the vicinity.

Eames stops short of producing fake wedding bands for both of them, but there’s a gleam in his eye that makes Arthur sure Eames at least considered it.

Once Eames is finished giving Arthur the tour, Arthur turns to him and asks, speaking slowly so that every word is carefully enunciated, “You know we’re not _actually_ moving in together, don’t you? Nice enough sheets are not going to make me forget I’m just pretending to be in love with you.”

Eames only laughs, the same kind of breezy dismissal he’s been issuing Arthur to years, long past the point either of them should find the performance remotely believable. Although Arthur has never really been sure what to believe, with Eames. It’s what makes Eames such a convincing forger.

“Just doing my job, Arthur. For this to work, every detail has to be perfect. Not just between us, but in the spaces we inhabit, the world we’re creating around ourselves. Imagine if this were a dream, you’d insist on double checking that we had the right carpet, that we had books you’d read and could speak about if prompted by a dinner guest. Just because no one is going to unleash an army of projections at us if the details are off is no reason to get sloppy.”

Arthur frowns, but says nothing. There’s no need to belabor the point when they both know Eames is right.

\---

Cobb has moved himself and his children into a house three blocks away from Eames and Arthur’s, another advantage, he insists, on taking a job in the waking world. Apparently there are great preschools in the area.

The plan begins by insinuating themselves into the neighborhood, and then, later, into the small circle of dog breeders and trainers Edward and Marcus Jones associate with by claiming to have developed an interest in showing their new dog.

Eames has purchased them a pure bred corgi to complete the deception, one with championship bloodlines and a few minor show victories in the circuit. He insists they name her _Liza_ which Arthur finds a little stereotypical, until he realizes Eames means it to be a shortening of Elizabeth, as in the Queen the II, instead of Minnelli.

When he tells Eames this origin, is, if possible, even gayer, Eames just laughs, reminding Arthur that that’s the point.

\---

Their first night in their new “home,” Eames makes dinner. He lights candles and pours wine and Arthur is poised to give another speech about remembering the boundaries of the job when Eames leans over him, and brushes his lips against Arthur’s cheek, making Arthur jump violently out of his chair and pin Eames’ face to the table without thinking.

Eames chuckles, and Arthur lets him go, feeling slightly dazed.

“And _that_ , Arthur, would be a perfect example of how one should _not_ react to a kiss from a beloved life-partner.”

Arthur sighs. They have a lot of work to do.

\---

It takes almost a week for Arthur to react naturally to Eames’ hand on the small of his back, guiding him around the room, or to smile instead of glaring reflexively when Eames peppers his sentences with endearments.

It’s another week before Arthur has conditioned himself to do anything but passively receive these affections. After spending years diligently warding off Eames’ advances, it feels wholly counter-intuitive to reach out to him instead, but Arthur is both adaptable and highly competitive, and he’s not about to let Eames get the better of him at this.

Unfortunately, he’s lived and worked in the strange solitude of Dom’s company for so long that Arthur almost forgets how he would act, normally, around someone he’s romantically involved with. Truth be told, he’s never had any relationship, outside of work, last longer than a few months. He got into the world of extraction and dream-sharing too young to make normal, waking attachments, and his near-constant travel and general disposition have never provided the opportunity or desire for much else.

Still, it was the life he chose, and he resents the looks Eames gives him, knowing and almost sad, when they stand near each other and Arthur clearly doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know how to relax into his presence or initiate contact. The only thing Arthur hates more than being out of control is being pitied, and it’s this resentment, far more than the knowledge that the success of the job depends on them being convincing, that causes him to start reaching out until it becomes second-nature to hold door open for Eames, to lean into his touch instead of stiffening and pulling away from it, and to look up, with a hint of a smile, whenever he hears Eames say the word “darling.”

The warmth that blooms in his chest whenever these things occur, however, is less easily explained by Arthur’s competitive instincts, and so he does his best to ignore it.

\---

Their first audition as Edward and Marcus’s new best friends comes in their third week of cohabitation, about when Arthur is starting to question the sanity of agreeing to this plan every few minutes rather than only every few hours.

Three weeks of nothing but going to sleep beside Eames and waking up to the coffee Eames has made for him and the newspaper Eames arranged to be delivered. Three weeks of early morning walks with the dog and days spent acclimatizing himself to having Eames’ arm around his shoulder when they sit together on the couch or holding his hand over the table as they pore over more of Jones’ background research, trying to piece his financial records together. Three weeks of evenings spent experimenting together in the kitchen, having Cobb and his kids over for dinner and taking longer, more ambling walks with Liza before bed.

Three weeks of domesticity they slot into so comfortably that Arthur is honestly starting to believe this whole thing is actually a trap, and not preparation for a job at all, especially given the conspiratorial looks shared between Dom and Eames. It gets to the point where Arthur genuinely can’t tell if he’s getting Stockholm syndromed into dating Eames or whether it’s just that too many years sharing people’s dreams and stealing secrets from them has turned him into a irredeemably paranoid fucker.

He’s actually pacing back and forth in his study, letting such thoughts consume him, the night Eames arrives home and announces there’s a neighborhood barbecue he’s secured them an invitation to that Saturday.

“Oh,” is all Arthur can think to say, stopping himself mid-stride and forcing himself to look Eames in the eye.

Eames smiles, like they’re sharing a great secret, and tells Arthur dinner will be ready in 45 minutes.

It’s only after he’s gone that Arthur realizes he’d been holding his breath the entire time Eames was in the room.

\---

He calls Dom, because this is, quite obviously, at least half Dom’s fault.

“Is Jones even suspected of anything?” he demands, not bothering to introduce himself.

There’s a long pause, and Arthur almost hangs up and calls again, but then Dom finally answers. “Arthur?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, which is only his right, he feels. “Since I’m one of two people who have this number, yeah, that’d be a safe guess.”

Somewhat sulkily, Arthur imagines an indulgent smile on Dom’s face to accompany his sigh.

“There’s a job, Arthur,” Dom assures him. “It’s even a well-paying one.”

Arthur clears his throat, deciding to put all his cards on the table. “So you would deny that this is, in fact, a plot to get me to sleep with Eames.”

The pause following this statement is, if possible, even longer than the last.

“Do you want to sleep with Eames?” Dom asks, inscrutably.

“ _No_ ,” Arthur insists. Almost certainly not.

“Then I don’t see what the problem is,” Dom responds lightly, and this time Arthur pictures what he assumes is the superior smile now on Dom’s face, that of a father and husband, a man entirely sure he knows what love is.

“I’m hanging up now,” he says, because he is.

“You do that,” Dom says, just before Arthur does.

\---

At dinner, Eames immediately launches into a discussion of the game-plan for the upcoming barbecue, and Arthur listens in a half-attentive haze, still trying to recover from the surprise that something is finally coming of all this preparation.

When Eames’ voice starts to slow, signaling that he’s wrapping up, Arthur forces himself to concentrate harder, making sure he gets the main gist, which is, not so surprisingly, that they’re to show up, act the happy couple, chat up Edward and Marcus, pretend to meet and befriend Dom for added legitimacy, and somehow manage to bring up the topic of their love of corgi’s without it sounding too ridiculous.

“I’m going to need to be at least a little bit drunk for this,” Arthur concludes once Eames finally finishes speaking.

Eames just grins, and says, “It’s a social gathering in suburban America. I’m sure you won’t be the only one.”

\---

He’s not. The barbecue is being hosted by a recent divorcée of undisclosed profession but obvious wealth, and almost no one seems to know each other. Almost all of them are making up for it with the bottles of beer in their hands.

Arthur and Eames arrive before Dom and the kids, but even after Dom’s set them loose to play with the other children at the party, Edward and Marcus don’t show.

Arthur is starting to feel mutinous again, glowering under Eames’ arm, when they finally arrive.

Their hostess greets them over-enthusiastically, and then they’re hailed by a man with a tweed jacket and dark rimmed glasses.

Arthur looks away, reminding himself not to be so conspicuous, and concentrates on not shivering when Eames ducks around to kiss his temple before whispering, “We’re on.”

\---

It goes well. Edward takes to Eames immediately, which isn’t surprising, really, most people other than Arthur do. He’s more pleasantly surprised to discover how easy it is for him to draw Marcus into conversation, to the point where Arthur gets so engrossed in their debate over post-war British painters that he’s actually a little disappointed when Eames finally takes his arm and informs him it’s time for them to head home.

Dom and the children are long gone by then, so Eames and Arthur leave alone, arms linked all the way to their car.

Eames opens Arthur’s door for him, and Arthur feels something like fondness rush in his ears before he snaps out of it, reminding himself this, like everything else tonight, is just for show.

He ignores Eames’ attempts to make conversation on the ride home, and only stops at sleeping downstairs on the couch because he knows full well how ridiculous such an action would make him look.

\---

Arthur doesn’t sleep much that night, and in the morning, he’s out of bed before Eames for the first time since they’ve been living together. He showers, scrubbing furiously until his skin is raw and cursing himself for how easily that kind of phrase floats through his mind. Living together. Sharing a bed. Calling the rented house they’ve only secured in order to work this job _home_. Feeling like that word actually means something, like it, like any of this, is real.

It shouldn’t be happening, and more to the point, Arthur shouldn’t want it to.

But it is. It is, and worse, he does. He wants it, all this, and more.

He stays in the shower long enough for the water to run cold, and that’s when Arthur finally resolves to get a fucking grip, a handle on himself. He is a professional; this is a job, just like any other. And just because he’s awake, that doesn’t make this any less of a fantasy.

\---

When Eames tries to put a hand on the nape of Arthur’s neck as he passes him in the kitchen later than morning, Arthur steps away, glaring.

Eames raises his eye brows, hands held up innocently in the air.

“Problem?”

“I think we’ve got enough practice, now. We put on a convincing enough show for Jones last night, at any rate. There’s no need to keep up the facade when we’re alone,” Arthur says firmly, wishing he sounded less like he was reprimanding himself instead of Eames.

Eames doesn’t seem to catch the nature of Arthur’s frustration, however, nodding and putting another few steps of distance between them, something cold flashing in his eyes, just for a second.

“Of course. Won’t happen again.”

Arthur nods and tries to tell himself he’s glad that Eames sounds like he means it.

\---

Arthur escapes to Dom’s house as soon as breakfast is over.

The kids are already away at school, and Dom has some blueprints spread out on the dining room table.

“What are these?” Arthur asks, announcing his presence.

Dom drops a glass in the kitchen; evidently he didn’t hear Arthur let himself in. Arthur follows the noise into the kitchen, shrugging apologetically at the mess.

Dom waves him off. “Can you pass me the broom?”

It’s in the corner behind Arthur, so he does so without even breaking eye contact with Dom. Which is good, because Arthur needs to be focusing on something hard enough that he can forget the distant, hurt look he saw echoing in Eames’ eyes right before Arthur slammed the door behind him to punctuate his departure.

“What’s going on? Was there trouble after I left last night?” Dom asks, still crouched on the floor, looking for remaining shards of glass.

“No, it went fine. We even got an invitation to their poker game next Friday night.” Eames, of course, was responsible for that one.

Cobb nods approvingly, standing up and dumping the broken glass into the garbage and then leading Arthur out of the room.

“So what’s wrong, then?”

Arthur restrains a sigh, and tells himself that he doesn’t miss the time when Dom was too fucked up by his own issues to notice Arthur’s.

“I’m starting to like it,” he admits at great cost.

Dom, at least, is quick enough to realize what he means without asking Arthur to expand.

“Aside from the obvious, what’s wrong with that?” Dom finally asks.

Arthur makes a face, sinking into the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. Dom shakes his head a little, sitting down next to him.

“I think the obvious is wrong enough all on its own.”

“You’ve always liked the quiet life more than you’d ever admit,” Dom says, reminding Arthur they’ve been friends for almost a decade, long before their lives were filled with nothing more than anonymous hotel rooms and corporations.

“Life with Eames wasn’t supposed to be _quiet_ ,” Arthur grumbles.

Dom smiles sympathetically. “He is deceptively loud in most other respects.”

Arthur thinks about responding, “Yeah, his _clothes_ , for one,” but even in his mind, the statement is undeniably fond, even flirtatious. He groans, burying his face in his hands.

“On the bright side,” Dom says, slapping a comforting hand against Arthur’s back, “you already know he’s crazy about you.”

“We know he’s _crazy_ ,” Arthur contradicts. “I have my doubts about the rest.”

Dom’s answering squint is less than impressed, but he lets the conversation drop, and for that, at least, Arthur really is grateful.

\---

On his walk home, Arthur runs, quite literally, into Edward. They laugh, disentangling, and Arthur thinks even Eames would be impressed by the relaxed smile he manages to mold his lips into.

“Nice to see you again,” Edward says, returning Arthur’s smile.

“Likewise,” Arthur says, as they fall into step together. “Where are you headed?” he asks, making conversation, pretending he doesn’t know exactly where Jones lives.

“Home, you?”

“Same,” Arthur nods, realizing this is a better opportunity than he’d initially imagined. “I’m just a few doors down, actually. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” He hopes this invitation sounds normal, something Arthur himself has never quite understood how to be.

“Thank you, but no, I have a meeting at 11. I’ve got to change and head into Manhattan.”

Arthur nods, masking his disappointment. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. “Another time, perhaps,” he says, just before turns onto his front walk.

Jones smiles amiably, and waves good-bye, saying, “I’ll look forward to it,” like he actually means it.

When Arthur lets himself into the house, Eames is lurking in the front hall, an expectant look on his face. Liza is sitting loyally at his feet, although she barks in acknowledgement of Arthur’s return.

“I ran into Jones,” Arthur tells Eames, deliberately misinterpreting the anticipatory set on Eames’ shoulders. “I invited him in, but he said he has a meeting in the city. We should follow him.”

“The whole point of doing the job this way is to avoid such unpleasantness.” Eames reminds him, the same pinched look in his eyes as when Arthur left the house hours before.

“That doesn’t mean we should pass up an opportunity like this. Who knows, maybe he’s about to meet with a client he’s trading information with, maybe he’s about to lead us to a safety deposit box where he’s keeping the money the company suspects him of skimming off the top! Maybe--”

“Maybe he’s going to a perfectly legal business lunch with his fellow senior brokers and then picking up a new set of leashes for the dogs,” Eames interrupts, with the air of authority of a man who’s been tapping Jones’ phone.

Arthur had forgotten about that part, for a minute there.

He deflates. “Or that.”

“Arthur,” Eames starts to say, inching closer, before Arthur cuts him off with a warning glance a decisive step backwards.

“I’m going to go review Jones’ financial records in the study,” he says, brushing past Eames, and decides to consider himself lucky that Eames lets him go, not bothering to point out that Arthur has spent weeks looking over every possible paper trail available already and still come up with nothing.

\---

Arthur makes it through the week leading up to the poker game mostly by spending all his waking hours hiding in his study or at Dom’s house. He and Eames still eat their meals together, but Eames doesn’t push Arthur for conversation. He doesn’t push Arthur for anything, so much so that when the night of the poker game finally arrives, Arthur realizes it’s the first time he and Eames have so much as made eye contact in almost a week.

Arthur is startled by the depth of concern he finds in Eames’ eyes when he finally meets them.

They’re standing in front of their car, and for once, Eames isn’t on Arthur’s side, holding the door open for him.

“Are you going to be able to do this?” Eames asks him, his voice sounds strangely rough, as if he hasn’t spoken, not just to Arthur, but at all, in all the days that have passed silently between them.

“I’ll be fine,” Arthur says gruffly. “Will you?”

Eames smile is pained, but probably no one but Arthur would be able to know that for sure.

“Don’t worry about me, Arthur. As I said, this is the role I was born to play.”

\---

When Eames takes his hand as they enter Jones’ house, Arthur has to fight to ignore the way his heart skips a beat.

“Welcome, welcome!” Edward gushes, hugging them both hello.

Arthur is startled by the sudden familiarity, but Eames covers for him, making a show of grabbing Arthur out of Edward’s embrace, joking easily about Jones keeping his hands off Eames’ man.

Edward laughs like this is a perfectly natural response, and Arthur is left to trail after them, wondering if this is really the way normal people behave. If easy affection and camaraderie are really things that exist outside of the cons he’s spent so much of his life being part of, or if this feeling of warmth in his chest, watching Eames from across the room, is just another illusion.

\---

Eames cleans the floor with the rest of them at the kitchen cum poker table, but he does it in such a charming, mischievous way that no one really minds. Arthur pretends to, a little, but he’s not fooling anyone. For the purposes of the mission, this is a good thing. Arthur is less sure how to classify the way his insides are twisting almost pleasantly at the speculative look Eames is giving him as the night progresses.

After the poker game dissolves, most of their party heads home, leaving Arthur and Eames alone with Edward and Marcus. Arthur isn’t tired, but he lets his head loll against Eames’ shoulder anyway, glad Eames is good enough at small talk to do most of the work for him. He finds himself unable to concentrate on much else besides the heat of Eames’ body, the way Arthur can hear his heart beat thrumming when he presses his ear against Eames’ neck.

Eventually, though, Eames and Edward wander off into another room, because Eames has actually convinced Jones he wants to see his stamp collection, leaving Arthur and Marcus alone.

Arthur smiles brightly, but is alarmed to see a knowing look take over Marcus’s face.

“It’s alright,” Marcus assures him, setting Arthur’s heart racing.

“What?” he manages, just grateful his voice doesn’t crack in the process.

“You don’t have to worry about your man,” Marcus elaborates, a kind lilt in his voice.

“I don’t - I’m not--” Arthur cuts himself off before he can stammer uselessly some more.

Marcus’s smile just widens. “I remember when I was like that, too. Couldn’t let him out of my sight. If I wasn’t worried about watching his six, I was going half-crazy wondering if there was someone trying to get close to him for the other reason.”

Arthur feels his face go slack, not from alarm, this time, but from the realization that Marcus is at least half right. Maybe more than half. Jesus.

He releases a shaky laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t realize I was that easy to read.”

Marcus offers a short chuckle, probably out of solidarity, and says, “I’m sure you’re not. But we can always recognize our own, right?”

Arthur nods, hands clenching anxiously, wishing, absurdly, for his totem, or at anything at all, really, to hold in his hands, anything to replace the desire to be holding onto Eames instead.

\---

In the car ride home, Eames turns on the radio, oldies and blues, and Arthur allows himself to release a quiet, contented sigh.

Eames smiles with the left side of his mouth, like he’s trying to hide it from Arthur, but instead of making him angry, the pleased look on Eames’ face settles what was left of Arthur’s reluctance.

Real or not, and he knows it’s probably not, these moments are the closest Arthur has felt to happy in a long time.

Knowing he’ll probably regret it later, Arthur decides, for once, to throw caution to the wind, and to let himself have this. To let himself pretend.

\---

The seasons change, the uncharacteristically warm fall shifting rapidly into a wet, cold winter. Arthur and Eames take a train into NYC to buy winter coats, a long, elegant wool double-breasted one for Arthur and a slightly shorter, but otherwise matching coat for Eames.

After they finish their shopping, they buy big pretzels from a street vendor and Arthur doesn’t even bother to protest when Eames leans in to wipe mustard off the side of Arthur’s mouth.

On the ride back, Arthur puts his hand on Eames’ knee, and when Eames laces their fingers together, Arthur just looks out his window and smiles.

\---

They only actually go to one dog show with Edward and Marcus. It turns out to be largely superfluous to their burgeoning friendship, and Arthur finds he’s far too fond of spoiling Liza to turn her into a winning show dog again.

Still, it’s a nice day, the four of them and their dogs, and Edward and Marcus’s pair take a blue ribbon, they all go out for a celebratory dinner, dogs included.

“I haven’t been to a restaurant that allowed pets since Paris,” Arthur remarks, feeling full and happy after a good meal and half a bottle of better wine.

“Oh, we haven’t been in years,” Marcus says, eyes lighting up, and he and Arthur spend the rest of the evening waxing poetic about the architecture and the history while Eames and Edward look on with soft, indulgent smiles on their faces.

\---

The job is moving slowly enough that Arthur actually takes some real consulting work, living his cover to the fullest again, just to give himself something to do.

He tells himself it’s because he wants to keep busy, not because he wants to drag the job out as long as possible, and neither Eames nor Dom call him on it, so Arthur is free to pretend.

\---

The third of November is Arthur’s birthday, and he wakes to breakfast in bed and a note telling him his present is waiting for him downstairs.

Arthur wasn’t expecting anything from Eames, or if he was, he would guessed it would be something classy but professional, a pair of cuff-links or a new tie, something Arthur would like because of its practicality, rather than sentimentality.

What he gets, after he’s finishing munching on his rye toast and egg, done sipping his Italian roast, is a beautifully wrapped box of his favorite cigars, the kind Eames smokes that Arthur has always pretended to abhor but secretly smokes, sometimes, when he’s alone.

Eames is nowhere to be found, and Arthur doesn’t search too hard, even though he knows Eames must be close by, close enough to have dropped off Arthur’s hot breakfast only a dozen or so minutes before.

He doesn’t look because he’s not sure what he would do if he saw, Eames just then. Because he can’t quite trust himself to hold firm to the tenuous barrier between fantasy and reality he’s been straddling these past months, not with the box of cigars in one hand and the note, signed “with love, E” in the other.

\---

When Arthur finds the evidence he needs to prove that Edward is innocent, framed by his main rival in his brokerage firm, he’s almost embarrassed by how obvious it is. The paper trail was well buried, admittedly, and there was nothing in either of their dossiers to suggest there was anything more than professional competition between them, but Arthur should have known better than to assume someone would need any more motivation than that to try and ruin another person’s life.

He texts Eames to let him know something big has happened, quashing the sudden queasiness at the realization that this means the completion of their job, and, by extension, the termination of their illusory relationship.

When he gets to Dom’s house to tell him the news, Arthur has to be careful not to trip over Phillipa and the small group of friends she’s playing with in the front yard. He gets inside, and Dom is reading a story to James, half-asleep on his lap.

Dom edits the last few pages away smoothly, pronouncing “the end” with enough authority that James just nods sleepily and allows himself to be deposited onto the couch so Arthur and Dom can talk privately in the kitchen.

“I found it,” Arthur announces triumphantly. “It wasn’t Edward at all, it was Adam Skinner - he tried to beat Ed by bending the rules and then when that didn’t work he decided to kill two birds with one stone, get the feds off his back and take Ed out of the running at work all by setting him up for the fall!”

He knows he’s happier about this than the success probably warrants, but Arthur can admit, at least to himself, that he really didn’t want Edward to be guilty. Even if it all has been in the context of a job, he’s started to like Edward. In other circumstances, Arthur might call him and Marcus friends.

Still, Arthur’s enthusiasm is not matched on Dom’s face, in fact, he shifts from shock to disappointment alarmingly fast, although Dom is quick to cover over the disappointment with a smile and a congratulatory slap on Arthur’s back.

“Well done. Was it the last conversation you had with Jones that tipped you off and made you take another look at Skinner? You mentioned he was complaining about Skinner being a bit too smug around the office lately, didn’t you?”

Something is off about Dom’s tone, about his whole reaction. Arthur stares at him openly, not hiding the way he’s cataloging Dom’s every movement, trying to put the pieces together.

When he finally does, Arthur feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“You knew.”

Dom immediately holds up a protesting hand, trying to speak, but Arthur doesn’t let him get that far.

“You son of a bitch, you knew all along. Jesus Christ, Dom. It really was a set-up, this whole time? You set me up and let me think I was going crazy for suspecting it and all this time you _knew_ Jones was innocent?”

“Arthur--”

“My life is not a fucking romantic comedy! It’s also not one of your cons.”

“It wasn't a -- there really _was_ a job, Arthur,” Dom assures him somewhat frantically.

“Yeah. A job where you were, what, 90% sure the mark was innocent? It was staring me in the face the whole time, but I ignored Skinner because I thought he was too obvious - if it was him, I thought, well, surely Eames would have already figured that out in his research, if he did it well enough to find out about their subconscious security. And I was right, wasn’t I? He had to have known, and you never would have agreed before he showed you everything, so that means you knew, too. And the only reason you knew I’d agree is because you also knew I’d trust you enough not to make Eames show me all his work, not if I thought you’d gone over it already.”

Arthur wraps his arms around himself, feeling waves of shock and something not unlike betrayal shudder through his chest.

Dom takes a step closer towards him, but then thinks better of it, letting Arthur retain his personal space.

“We didn’t know for sure, we couldn’t, not without getting close to Jones, Skinner’s deception was too clean, and look - we still completed the job, we’ll still get paid.”

“We’ll get _paid_? Are you listening to yourself?” Arthur spits, disgusted.

“Arthur--”

“No. Dom, goddamnit. This isn’t the first time you’ve played me like this, tricked me into a job you knew I’d never take if you told me the whole truth, but so help me it _will_ be the last.”

“Arthur, I did this for you!” Dom protests, his eyes wide with sincerity.

“And inception was for you, and maybe, someday, if we all get out of this intact I’ll even be grateful for both, but you will _never_ play me like this again, do you you hear me?”

Dom sighs heavily, and says, “Yeah, Arthur. I hear you.”

The set in his shoulders changes, rising with sudden confidence, and this time when he takes a step forward, he doesn’t back track immediately, remaining close enough to Arthur to put a hand on his shoulder.

“I hear you, and now I need you to hear me. This job? It was the only way either of us could see to try and knock some sense into you. Now I know I have had my rough patches, I know I went to hell and took you there with me after Mal, but that’s over now, at least the worst of it is, and it’s time for us to make new lives for ourselves. It’s time for us to try and be _happy_. That’s all I want for you, that’s all this was supposed to be. Just a chance for you to be happy.”

“What, by _tricking_ me?”

“By showing you,” Dom corrects softly. “What it could be like, what you could have, the life, Eames. All of it.”

“I don’t--”

“Don’t even start. Jesus, Arthur. You love him. Far as I can see it, you’ve loved him since the moment you first met him, but you’ve never done anything about it. After inception, I was hopeful, but even then, you held yourself apart. From him, from me. It was starting to look like you were really never going to do anything about it. So we stepped in.”

“And conned me.”

“The only part that was a con was the job, Arthur,” Dom says like he expects Arthur to believe him. Like Arthur could believe anything Dom is saying to him right now. “Everything else, that’s just how you feel. How Eames feels.”

Arthur shakes his head, breaking away from Dom’s touch and pacing angrily. “Don’t talk to me about Eames’ feelings.”

“He loves you, Arthur,” Dom says, like it’s a simple fact, like they’re discussing the predictability of the tides or gravity.

“He pretends. He’s just been pretending so long I doubt even Eames knows how he really feels.”

“I do,” Eames says, suddenly emerging from the pantry and scaring Arthur half to death.

“Fuck,” Arthur exclaims, hand over his heart. He can’t believe what a fucking _civilian_ this job has turned him into. His reflexes have gone to shit.

“How long have you been listening?” Arthur demands, once he’s recovered himself somewhat.

Eames purses his lips, impatient. “The whole time. Are you about through with the histrionics, love?”

“I will fucking--”

“Calm down, both of you,” Dom snaps, but he’s looking at Arthur, who is, admittedly, about ready to charge at Eames, fists aloft.

“You’re unbelievable,” Arthur responds, glaring at the floor in hopes they’ll both assume he’s talking to them.

They stand there in tense silence until Eames finally says, “Where you’re wrong, Arthur, and have always been wrong, is in assuming I was _ever_ pretending, even at the very beginning.”

Arthur stares at him incredulously. “You were hiding from your tail! You were just using me for a decoy, for cover!”

Eames smiles, almost like he’s pleased that Arthur remembers their first meeting so clearly. He ignores the sudden answering jolt of pleasure in his chest prompted by the obvious clarity of Eames’ own memory of the events.

“I didn’t have to kiss you to do that,” Eames responds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I could have just ducked inside the cafe, or even just pulled you into a nice manly handshake, something far more appropriate and far less satisfying. But instead, I kissed you, which I had been wanting to do from the moment I saw you, picking you out of a crowd even from half a block away with two men and at least as many guns at my back. All that going on around me and still, you were all I could see.”

Dom clears his throat, like he’s about to usher himself discretely out of the room, but Arthur doesn’t feel like letting him off quite that easily.

“You stay,” he orders, holding up a warning finger.

“Arthur, are you sure you want me here for this?” Dom asks, trying for reasonable but looking far more like an uncomfortable best friend hoping to avoid witnessing a PDA. Although Dom is dead wrong if he things anything of the kind is about to happen. Bloodshed would be more likely.

Still, he asks, “You started this, don’t you want to see it through?” with a mean grin that is mostly teeth.

Dom sighs, and Eames says, “Don’t I get any say in this?”

Arthur dismisses that notion with a look, and Eames rolls his eyes, but Arthur can see clearly enough that he’s doing so fondly.

He tries to trust that sentiment, but even now, he can’t shake the nagging doubt, the suspicion that this, like everything else has seemed to be, is just another part of the con.

Eames always talks about the joy of the long-con, and Arthur can’t help but wonder if he’s not the longest con Eames has ever pulled.

It’s that thought, or maybe it’s just that Arthur is a coward, that makes him walk out of the kitchen, and then the house, without a word.

\---

He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and the final ends of the job, such as it is, still need to be tied up, so Arthur goes home. He hates how automatically he still calls the house that, how much it still feels like it’s true, or at least that it should be.

He doesn’t get as far as his office, to the documents that have proven Edward innocent, unraveling the months of deception Arthur is only now aware he was the object of. Instead, he collapses onto the living room couch, and, for once, doesn’t discourage Liza from jumping awkwardly up onto the couch and putting her nose on his lap. He pets her, murmuring praise about what a good girl she is, because it’s not the dog’s fault she’s just another prop in Eames and Dom’s charade. Her loyalty, at least, is uncomplicated enough to take comfort in, to return.

He tries not to take it personally when she abruptly jumps off the couch, barking excitedly to announce Eames’ return.

Arthur hears Eames come into the room, but he doesn’t look up when he asks, “What do you want?” trying to make his voice sound as unwelcoming as possible.

Eames sighs, sounding put-upon and tired. “Well, I would say that I want you, that all I’ve ever wanted is you, but we both know you wouldn’t let yourself believe me, and besides which, I have a more pressing desire at the moment.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

Eames sits down heavily, not quite close enough for their thighs to brush. “For you to stop being such a bloody arsehole and grow up.”

“Grow up?” Arthur demands heatedly.

“That’s right. I’ve tolerated this phobia of intimacy you’ve projected onto me for half a decade, Arthur. But we’re not those young and reckless men anymore. It’s time to take responsibility for ourselves, for our feelings.”

“Are you honestly lecturing me about taking responsibility? You?”

Eames shakes his head. “Arthur, you’ve known me better than anyone and still you insist on pretending you don’t know me at all. Is the idea of a life with me really so appalling? Is it really only bearable if you convince yourself it’s a dream?”

“I know I’m awake,” Arthur insists, the protest automatic, even though he knows full well Eames didn’t mean it that literally.

“Do you remember when I kissed you, that first time? Do you remember how neither of us could stop from kissing the other back? It’s _never_ been anything but real between us, Arthur. The only thing we’ve been pretending is that we didn’t know it.”

Arthur wants to look away, or better yet, get up and leave again, but Eames’ gaze is pinning him to the couch, rendering him unable to look anywhere but straight at Eames.

There’s nothing but sincerity in Eames’ eyes, but that’s never been the issue. It’s trusting anything he does when Eames can make the boldest lie sound like truth that’s always been Arthur’s problem. But in the face of everything he’s seen today, everything he’s lived in the past months, those protests are starting to sound hollow, even to Arthur’s ears.

As if he’s sensing Arthur weakening, Eames takes another inch, putting his hand on Arthur’s knee and squeezing gently. Arthur looks down at the hand, splayed wide across his knee, and realizes his heart is already slowing, panic and anger receding, like his body is giving into Eames’ touch even while his mind is still screaming at him to ignore it, to push Eames’ hand away.

“You shouldn’t have lied to me,” Arthur says shakily, forcing himself to shift away and out of Eames’ reach. “If you wanted me to trust you, you shouldn’t have turned my life into a game.”

“It was never a game, darling--”

“Whatever your reasons, call them noble if you like, it was a still a con.” Arthur says bitterly, finding it all too easy to look away from Eames now.

“What do you want me to say?” Eames asks eventually, a pleading note in his voice. “That I’m sorry? I’m not, or at least I won’t be, not if this works.”

“It’s not going to work,” Arthur snaps, even though on some level he knows it already has.

Eames sighs, exasperated and yet somehow patient, and says, “I love you.”

His voice sounds nothing like Arthur has ever heard, not in the middle of Eames’ most convincing dream, not in the midst of the most serious conversations they’ve had in waking life.

“I love you,” Eames repeats, like a mantra. “You’re stubborn and proud and you can hold a grudge better than anyone I’ve ever known, and I love you. You’re brilliant and more than a little vain and you never wash cutlery, and I love you. You have secret, terrible taste in music and when you’re hungry you’re an absolute _terror_ , and I love you. When you kiss you do it like you’re trying to win something, win everything, and I love you. You sing to yourself when you’re happy and you speak in French when you sleep and I--”

Arthur kisses him, kisses him because he can’t not, because he’s wanted to for over five years and he’s finally decided it doesn’t matter if it’s real, or at least not if it started out that way. Real or not, it’s all he’s ever wanted.

He kisses Eames like he wants to win, not everything, but just Eames, because maybe that’s really the same thing. He kisses Eames to shut him up, to prove him right, or wrong, or maybe just because he has to do something with himself before he tells Eames he loves him too.

He kisses Eames until he can’t think of anything else, anything at all, except the feeling of Eames’ tongue against his, the burn of Eames’ fingers wrapped around his face.

When they finally break apart, it’s Eames who does the leaving, but he softens the departure by brushing his thumb against Arthur’s swollen bottom lip, smiling almost too tenderly, if it wasn’t for the heat behind it.

“Do you believe me?” Eames asks, voice rough and ruined from the kiss.

Arthur shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“No, but I am willing to give you another chance to convince me.”

Eames smiles at this, pulling Arthur closer for another kiss, softer this time, almost like a hello. Like it’s their first kiss, or at least how their first kiss should have been.

“You are impossible and too suspicious for either of our own good and I love you.”

Arthur kisses him again, and wonders if Eames knows he means “I love you, too.”

From the way Eames holds onto him, exactly like he plans to never let go, Arthur thinks he probably does.


End file.
